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There is a rise of stomach flu cases in late October and it becomes a busy couple of weeks in the geriatric ward; they’re suffering from both lack or personnel and lack of space on the best of days and now they are setting up extra beds in every room, separating them with flimsy white curtains that only give a provisional illusion of privacy. Kevin struggles to make time for the rounds, must step in to help the nursing aides with bed pans and cleaning duties while keeping track of their special case and long-term patients.
“Price, please double check the IV dose for bed four.” Doctor Roth looks as weary as Kevin feels, the wrinkle that always is present between her eyebrows is especially defined today. “And are you keeping track of bed seven’s blood sugar?”
“--Mr. Wall—yes, it was fine fifteen minutes ago.” Kevin spins on the spot and heads to bed four, pushes the curtain aside with his hand a little, then steps past the curtain once he’s made sure the patient feels okay with him entering. A few of the old ladies don’t feel comfortable with male nurses, especially not when it comes to anything that involves bodily fluids or states of undress, and if the patient is embarrassed, Kevin becomes embarrassed; for both their sakes he would rather not barge in unless he knows the patient is fine with it. “Excuse me Mrs. Foley, I just need to double check…” He grabs the flimsy paper attached to the IV-stand and double checks the calculations with the concentration on the plastic bag. “It looks good, I think,” he says after a moment, mostly to the nurse by the patient’s bedside.
“Thanks,” Susan says from the other side of the bed, blood pressure monitor in her hand, smiling at him. “Your values are good,” she tells the patient. “I’m sorry for the state of the ward right now.”
“Don’t worry about it.” With the hand that is not in a cast, Mrs. Foley reaches for the book that is resting on her stomach. “I understand what it’s like. Thank you, nurse--“ she nods in Kevin’s direction, “Doctor.”
He opens his mouth to correct her, but Susan has already rounded the bed and taken him under the arm, leading him past the curtain. Once they are out, the smile drops from her face. “Three years, and doctor Roth still doesn’t trust me with simple mathematics.”
Kevin clears his throat, uncomfortable with this turn of events, tries to give her a smile. “She doesn’t trust anyone except herself, I think.”
“She trusts you,” she points out ruefully, and Kevin blinks.
"Well--" To be honest, he hasn't considered the possibility that someone wouldn’t—which is a pattern of thinking he is trying to stop himself from falling back on, mostly because people mock him for it if they find out.
She gives him a side-glance while they walk out into the corridor and towards the sink where she begins to wash her hands. “Did you ever consider becoming a doctor?”
“Why are you asking?”
“No reason.” She reaches for the bottle of hand sanitizer attached to the wall and begins to rub it into her fingertips. “You just seem like the type.”
His tongue is itching to ask for what type that is, but he decides against it. “What about you?”
She gives him a smile, a bit lop-sided. “I’m applying to medical schools next year.”
“Really?” He doesn’t know why he is startled by the news. “Congratulations. I guess?”
“Thanks. Luckily I have a Bachelor instead of a nursing diploma; I’m taking a few classes right now but a lot of my courses are transferable.” She pulls on a fresh pair of gloves. “I’ve been here almost three years now. I just feel like this is the next step, you know?”
Kevin opens his mouth, but realizes that he doesn’t know how to respond to that so he settles for a smile. “So when you leave, I’ll be the senior nurse in this ward.”
She pokes his side with her elbow. “Don’t let it get to your head, newbie.”
“Of course I won’t,” he responds, honestly offended.
She laughs at him, which may not be the best testament of his attempt at humility, but he decides to let it pass.
It is still dark outside when Kevin wakes up, and it takes a moment for his brain to catch up with his location; Connor’s apartment may be tiny but it is closer to the university hospital side of campus. And at this point, Kevin has his own key, he has his own drawers in the bedroom and there is a French press in the cupboard in the kitchen.
And even though most of his stuff is still in his dorm room on the other side of campus, most of the time it is just so much nicer to have someone to come home to.
He pushes himself up on his elbow and fumbles after his cellphone on the bedside table, squinting when the screen lights up. 4:32; no wonder it is still dark outside.
There is a sound from the bathroom that makes him wince; he gives it a couple of minutes, then slides his feet out from beneath the covers and onto the cold floor, making a mental note to bring a pair of slippers with him the next time he is in his dorm room.
He heads towards the bathroom, but finds Connor on the couch, spread out and with one weary hand resting on his stomach. His bangs are dark with cold sweat; his skin looks almost translucent and there are dark bags under his eyes. There is an empty trash can on the floor beside him.
“You okay?” Kevin asks quietly, unused to seeing Connor this affected by something.
“Stomach flu cases at work, huh?” Connor makes a face. “How come I get sick and you don’t?”
"I don't know." Kevin shrugs with one shoulder, feeling surprisingly lost. It is his job to take care of sick people, but now he doesn’t know what to do. He heads over to the kitchen. "I guess I just don't get sick very often."
"I guess you've found your ultimate profession, then," Connor groans, then opens his eyes when Kevin returns and places a damp towel over his forehead. "Oh, that's good." A moment later, "Sorry."
"If it makes any difference, I've gotten fairly good at cleaning up vomit," Kevin offers, then winces in sympathy at the sudden, dry heave that shakes Connor's body. “No sympathy puking anymore. Mostly.”
Connor swallows carefully, leans back and closes his eyes. "It does not. Make a difference."
"I'm sorry," Kevin repeats, for all that it is worth. He has only had stomach flu once in his entire life and he thinks it may have been the worst thing that he has ever experienced; all things considered, he thinks that Connor seems to be handling it pretty well. “You should go back to bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t want to move.” Connor slides down on the couch until he is lying down, half-curled up. “I’ll have to call in sick tomorrow.”
“I’ll do that for you,” Kevin says, grateful to find something he can help with. Something about seeing Connor sick feels fundamentally wrong. Connor is bright and cheerful; he is somehow effervescent and incredibly self-reliable in the way Kevin had always expected himself to be when he grew up, before it had become apparent that he simply wasn’t. Connor’s childhood had been trimmed with judgements, from both himself and other people, but somehow even that had prepared him for adulthood way better than Kevin himself had been.
--and Kevin knows that it is only a stomach bug, but he doesn’t like feeling helpless.
Connor, bless him, seems to notice his unhappiness even while his body seems intent on turning itself inside out. “Go to bed, you have an early shift, don’t you?”
Kevin hesitates. “You sure?”
“Yes. Leave me alone. I must look terrible.”
It very nearly makes Kevin grin that Connor would comment on his appearance rather than his illness. “You never look terrible,” he says sincerely. “You look better than any of my sick patients.”
“Good to know I look better than puking ninety-year olds,” Connor says dryly, then his mouth twists into a grimace as a shudder seems to go through his body. “Just go away.”
Kevin opens his mouth, then feels himself deflate as he gives up, swears to himself to make it up to Connor somehow, and trudges back to bed for a couple of hours.
Kevin finished his mac and cheese just under two minutes and twenty-five seconds, and fifteen minutes since he last helped one of his patients change a vomit-stained nightshirt, which is a testament to how much stronger his stomach is now compared to when he started this job. He looks up to meet Martin’s slightly fascinated expression from the other side of the table.
“You should try some vegetables with that.” He slides over a Tupperware container with carrot sticks. "Here. The last ones from the allotment."
Kevin takes a few and bites into one of them, dropping the rest onto his plate. "Thanks."
"Short-spoken too?" He raises a hand to his mouth in a theatrically shocked gesture. "You're acting particularly straight today."
Kevin has known Martin for a little more than six months now, and he still doesn't know how to respond to little comments like that; he ends up grimacing vaguely before biting into another carrot. "It's just been a long morning."
"Stomach flu in the ward. I heard" Martin nods, wraps his hands around his cup of coffee, eyes flickering between Kevin and the TV in the corner of their break room. "And then we'll have the regular flu, and once it gets colder, the slipping accidents. Gotta love winter." He throws a glance at Kevin's empty plate. “You’re doing better than your first month here.”
Kevin tries not to wince at the reminder. He had been made fun of a bit during his residency here because he had been more squeamish than most students. He has always been bad with vomit; as a kid it had been difficult for him to be around his siblings when they had gotten sick. "I'm trying to compartmentalize."
"You'll get used to it." Martin's normally tight mouth loosens into a smile. A little one, but still. "Sort of."
"Thanks," Kevin says, going for polite, but he thinks it might sound more like sarcasm. “Hey, do people ever mistake you for a doctor?”
Martin doesn’t even look away from the TV. “All the time. It’s because we’re guys.”
“Oh.”
“There’s a lot on your mind today, isn’t it?” Martin sounds amused. “What’s wrong?”
Kevin scowls, both because he is apparently being so transparent and because he’s not particularly interested in sharing his personal life with Martin, of all people. “Connor got sick last night.”
“Ah, the mysterious boyfriend.” Martin perks up at the mention. “When am I going to meet him?”
“Not right now, you’re not.” He doesn’t even bother asking why Martin refers to him as mysterious. Connor is probably the least mysterious person that Kevin has ever met. He wears his heart on his sleeve most of the time, and is one of Kevin’s favorite things about him. “I don’t like seeing him feel bad, is all.”
“Aww.”
Kevin looks at him uncertainly; as it often is with Martin, he is not sure if he is being genuine or not. “What do you do when Sean is sick?”
Martin grins. “Leave him the hell alone. He’d bite my hand off if I tried to coddle him. And when he’s feeling better he’ll chew me out for not coddling him.”
Kevin blanches. “Oh.”
“Not your style? I didn’t think so.” He slides the Tupperware container over to Kevin again; then closes the lid when Kevin declines. “You haven’t been together very long, have you? Seriously, you’ll figure out what works for you. But most sensible people want to be left alone when they’re sick. It’s just our profession that makes us used to it being the other way around.”
Kevin grimaces, mostly because if he is honest with himself, he doesn’t mind being coddled when he is sick. At least he didn’t used to do it when he was little. But he doesn’t want to tell Martin that, so he merely shrugs and stands up to put his plate in the dishwasher.
Mrs. Ramirez has a broken arm and a fractured hip and she is struggling to keep herself smiling while Kevin helps her change her stoma pouch. If her arm had not been in a cast she would probably have done it herself, the way Kevin understands that she has done for the past two years.
"It's getting chilly outside," Kevin says idly to break the silence while he works. "Maybe it'll snow today."
"God forbid," Mrs. Ramirez, her smiling turning somewhat more genuine as her attention is diverted from her embarrassment. "I don't want to slip again."
"I'm sure you'll be fine. I, on the other hand, nearly fell over with my bike this morning."
"Goodness. Isn't it too cold to ride a bicycle now?"
"It’s faster than taking the bus. And my boyfriend forces me to wear a helmet, so it's fine."
"Your boyfriend sounds like a wise boy."
Kevin thinks about Connor practicing dance-moves for hours in their tiny living room until he is dizzy enough to fall over in Kevin’s arms. It makes him smile while he struggles to remove the glossy release paper from the tape. "I suppose. It messes my hair up, though."
Mrs. Ramirez snorts, and Kevin is gratified by her amusement even though it is at his expense. “So bring a comb with you. Boys!”
“Glorify God in your body,” Kevin quotes, conscious of the cross necklace she always wears around her neck under her pajama shirt.
“That doesn’t mean what you think it does,” she replies, sounding surprised. “You’re religious?”
“Well,” Kevin says, helping her button up her pajama shirt again, smiling at her. He likes Mrs. Ramirez. “Sort of. Remind me to show you my helmet before I leave today. My boyfriend decorated it for me. There, I’m done.”
She smiles at him. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Kevin’s smile slips off his face.
Maybe Kevin slams the front door a bit harder than he should; he walks into the apartment with his backpack slung over one shoulder, his bicycle helmet in one hand, still wearing his shoes even though he knows that Connor hates when he does that. He looks at Connor despairingly. “I don’t want to be a doctor.”
Connor looks at him from the couch with an unreadable expression, looking freshly showered and with a blanket draped over his legs. He slowly reaches for the remote and points it towards the TV, muting it. “I’m feeling fine, thank you.”
Kevin must pause and take a breath to allow the frustration that has been building during his ride back home to dissipate. Once it does, he feels guilt prickle under his skin. “Sorry. You’re looking better.”
Connor smiles a little, and just like that, it seems like Kevin is forgiven. “I’m feeling better, too.”
Kevin unwinds his scarf from around his neck, steps further into the living room. The trashcan has been put away, he notices, and there is a plate with a half-eaten toast on the coffee table. “I’m sorry that I’m a nurse,” he says, “And I’m sorry that I bring home stomach bugs for you to suffer through.”
“Apology accepted.” Connor throws something at Kevin’s head; he tries to catch it but fails. When he looks down there is a popsicle stick on the carpet. He picks it up. Connor continues, “What’s this about becoming a doctor?”
Kevin steps out of his shoes, lets his backpack and helmet fall to the floor before he walks over to sit down next to Connor on the couch, throws the popsicle stick onto the table. He closes his eyes for a second, tries to let Connor’s comforting presence soothe him. “Nothing. It’s just—a thing.”
“I’m sure.” Connor sounds bemused. “Are you planning to become a doctor?”
“To please my parents, maybe.” Kevin’s father had never quite appreciated the fact that Kevin had picked the profession that he had. But then, he had never quite appreciated the fact that Kevin had stopped going to church either, or have a relationship with another man. He opens his eyes, looks up to realize that Connor is watching him, brows furrowed. “Not really, no.”
Connor is quiet for a moment, then reaches out to take his hand, holding it up as though he is studying it. “Kevin.”
Kevin looks back at his boyfriend again; Connor doesn’t actually use his name very often, prefers to use words like sweetie, or honey, words that used to make Kevin blush so much that it made Connor laugh during their first months of dating. Connor is half-smiling at the same time as he is almost frowning, rubbing his thumb against the back of Kevin’s hand. “You don’t have to work your ass off to atone for being a self-absorbed idiot when you were a teenager.”
It startles a laugh out of him. Connor almost never says a word higher on the profanity scale than a very occasional ‘oh shucks!’. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
Connor looks a bit startled, as though he hadn’t realized it himself. “No. I just… I always thought you’d want to do something more… glamorous.” He sounds apologetic when he says it, but it still stings a bit, even though Kevin knows and understands what Connor means with it. He pulls his hand free from Connor’s grasp.
“I was planning to go to med school,” he confesses. “Since I was little. It just felt like what I was supposed to do, you know?” Connor watches him silently. “But when I got home from Uganda, I realized that—well. Doctors aren’t very nice.” He scowls when Connor discreetly puts a hand over his mouth. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not,” Connor assures him from behind his hand, even though he sounds amused, and Kevin knows that he is smiling. “But honey, Gotswana is a special case, and he was very--”
“—good at what he was doing,” Kevin finishes, and there is a sting in his chest as he remembers a humiliation he would rather not talk about. “But he wasn’t exactly kind.” Or maybe he had never liked Kevin, which, either way, had felt like pretty much the same thing.
“Well, maybe he preferred to focus on making sure people didn’t die,” Connor points out.
“Exactly. What I mean is, most doctors don’t really…” He frowns, unsure why it is so difficult to voice this. “I want to help people feel better.”
“And doctors don’t?”
“Of course they do. But not like that. You know what I mean. Why are you smiling?”
“No reason.” Connor shakes his head, letting his hand drop from his mouth. “I just realized that it’s so typically you. Wanting to help people---spiritually, I guess. You could have been a bishop.”
“If I hadn’t accidentally developed an intense dislike of organized religion, maybe.”
“Maybe,” Connor echoes. “Either way, I guess you are doing what you always wanted to do, aren’t you?”
“And what’s that?”
“Helping people, of course.”
Kevin feels his cheeks heat up. Why is it that he can accept praise from most people without batting an eyelid, but once it is from Connor it just--it feels so heartfelt it makes him feel awkward? “That, and I get to wear crocks.”
Connor leans away from him with a disgusted expression. “You’re the only person I know that would be happy about that.”
“What? They’re happy colors.” The crocks he wears at work are bright orange, and he has a handful of pins to decorate them with.
Connor shakes his head, smiles a little as though he is despairing, as though he has any right whatsoever to have opinions on other people’s fashion choices. And besides, he is the one that has given Kevin more than half of the pins that Kevin alternates between, including the Mickey Mouse one that he never removes.
They sit together in silence for a while; Kevin can feel the stress and anxiety begin to wear off. Connor’s warmth slowly sinks into his body and loosens his muscles. Maybe it is getting too cold outside to ride his bicycle to work. The wind blows right through his clothes and numbs his skin. “Mrs. Ramirez says that you’re wise,” he says idly, staring at the muted TV.
“She’s right,” Connor says quickly, sounding way too pleased. “But who in the world is that?”
“One of my patients. She approves of my helmet.”
Connor’s smile twitches. “I bedazzled it myself.”
“I know you did.” The helmet is lying on the floor in the doorway beside Kevin’s backpack. The plastic jewels are glimmering in the flickering lights from the TV. He doesn’t think that Connor had ever expected him to wear it; which had honestly been the sole reason why he had actually done so. They both know how much Kevin dislikes being seen as peculiar; it makes his arms and fingers feel stiff and his lungs feel full.
“Sorry I’m being selfish,” he mutters, embarrassed now by his outburst a few moments ago. “Are you really feeling better?”
Connor reaches for his hand again, squeezes it and lets their joined hands rest on Kevin’s thigh. “Oh don’t worry about it; I know exactly what you’re like.” He grins. “I’m feeling much better, thank you.”
“A person at work said that most people want to be left alone while they’re sick.” He glances at Connor’s face. “I’ve never thought about it—my job is sort of about making sure people aren’t alone.”
“Sounds like a wise person, too,” Connor says plainly, and before Kevin has had the time to scrunch his face up at the thought of Martin being called ‘wise’, he continues. “But can I tell you a secret?”
Kevin shifts, almost nervous about what is to come. “What?”
Connor’s smile is best described as mischievous. “Now that I’m feeling better, I really wouldn’t mind being spoiled.”
The final traces of anxiety and stress finally leaves him at the sight of that smile. “I think I can handle that.”
“Good.” Connor lets go of his hand, leans back until he is almost sprawling on the couch, pulling his blanket over himself and poking Kevin with his foot. “Show me what you’re going for.”